ORPHANLOCK: Generation One
by aelitacode59656
Summary: "My name is Sarah Manning, and you're going to help me find my daughter." Sherlock Holmes wasn't who we though he was. In fact, he isn't who HE thought he was. Orphan Black/Sherlock crossover. Post-Reichenbach. Post-Endless Forms Most Beautiful. Reunion fic. Rated M for later chapters (violence, angst, etc.) A ton of new clones, male and female alike. Preview posted
1. PREVIEW: A Study in Trailers

[scene begins with a long shot of a man on a train. The train is empty except for this man (back facing the camera) and a woman. The man on the train is wearing a black hoodie, hood down. Fade to black.]

[screen cuts to a closer shot, merely a few feet away. The man's unruly, curly hair and pale skin is visible now, even when his face is not visible. Fade to black.]

John Watson:_(voiceover) _You…you told me once…

[screen cuts to a shot of the man pulling the hoodie over his head. Fade to black.]

John Watson: _(voiceover) _…that you weren't a hero.

[screen cuts to a close up of the rail on top of the subway seat, where a long-fingered, leather gloved hand grab it. Fade to black.]

John Watson: _(voiceover) _Um…

[screen cuts to an outside shot, where the man has just exited the train and is looking around. He turns to face the screen—revealing himself to be Sherlock Holmes. He turns and sees another man back facing him, wearing a suit, tall, hair slicked back. Fade to black.]

John Watson: _(voiceover) _There were times when…

[screen cuts to Sherlock, approaching the strange man, who takes off his tie and tosses it to the side. The man turns around, but the shot is tilted away so his face isn't visible. Screen cuts to Sherlock's face , which is filled with disbelief. Screen fades to black.]

John Watson: _(voiceover) _I didn't even think you were human.

[screen cuts to the face of the other man, identical to that of Sherlock's. His hair is slicked back, his suit is dark gray. But his face and figure are entirely identical to that of Sherlock's.]

John Watson: _(voiceover) _But please, there's just one more thing…

Sherlock Holmes: Who are you?

[the man in front of him stares at him, gaze perfectly level, turns to his briefcase, then back at Sherlock, and half-smiles. He turns away towards the edge of the train platform and starts to walk towards it.]

John Watson: _(voiceover) _…one more miracle, Sherlock, for me…

[the man nears the edge. A train comes in the distance.]

Sherlock Holmes: NO!

[the man falls off the tracks right as the train comes. Screen cuts to black.]

John Watson: _(voiceover) _…don't be…dead.

[screen cuts to a shot of Sherlock in an alleyway, opening the man's briefcase. He finds the man's driver's license and examines it, revealing the man's name: Alexander. ]

Sherlock Holmes: _(voiceover) _First time in my life, I don't have any logical explanation for this.

[screen cuts to a bar scene, in which Sherlock and Molly Hooper are sitting and talking.]

Molly Hooper: So what are you going to do?

Sherlock Holmes: I need a cover.

[screen cuts to Alexander's dead body in a body bag, laid on top of an autopsy table. Other shots include Sherlock trying on Alexander's suits and combing his hair back.a]

Molly Hooper: _(voiceover) _But who's going to ID the body? Sherlock, you're…dead.

Sherlock Holmes: _(voiceover) _I don't know.

[screen cuts to a shot of Detective Art Bell sitting at his desk, looking at the autopsy photo of Alex. When the facial recognition identifies him as Sherlock Holmes, an alert appears on the screen.]

Sherlock Holmes: _(voiceover) _But it doesn't matter.

[Art clicks the alert and sees the suicide report from St. Bart's. He then does a more thorough facial recognition search (screen cuts to a later shot) and several other results pop up from around the world. He takes his phone out.]

Art Bell: _(into his phone) _Angela, it's me. Bring her in.

[screen cuts to Sherlock, trying to integrate himself into his new life. He's making coffee for a brunette, named Lana Clay. Lana takes her mug of coffee and smiles.]

Lana Clay: There's something different about you.

Sherlock Holmes: _(using a Canadian accent, smiling a little) _Why, am I doing something wrong?

[Lana giggles. Screen cuts to morgue scene, where Art is handing a folder of pictures of Sherlock, Alexander, and other various men identical to the pair to a woman (currently unidentified, shots from behind).]

Art Bell: You know more about this than we do.

Unidentified Woman: _(British accent) _What makes you say that?

[screen cuts to Sherlock, getting out of a sleek car (belonging to Alexander) with Molly. Cut to inside a suburban house, where Sherlock and Molly walk in the door and stare at the people inside.]

Unidentified Male: _(voice, as shot does not include man, Canadian accent) _Explain to me one more time…who the hell are you?

Sherlock Holmes: How many of us are there?

[screen turns to three men, all dressed differently but otherwise identical to each other. One is sitting in a chair wearing a corduroy jacket, white shirt, and jeans, his hair relatively combed but still a bit messy. Another is wearing a baseball shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans, hair slightly tousled from wearing a cap often. The last one is wearing tight leather pants, a v-neck t-shirt, black leather studded jacket. His hair is slicked back.]

Studded Jacket Man: _(Australian accent, smile) _We wouldn't be here if we knew, would we?

[various action scenes are voiced over by the following couple of lines, brief cuts to the characters to show who's speaking]

Baseball Shirt Man: _(Canadian, slightly flustered)_ First order of business—what are we?

Sherlock Holmes: Well, obviously, clones. Or, more specifically, genetically identical experiments. That much is evident. We're perfectly identical in features, fingerprints…and intelligence, I presume, despite the fact that we use it for different purposes.

Man Sitting in Chair: _(Irish, calm voiced) _Correct. In all ways. We all use our mind for different reasons—crime, teaching, performing, understanding others, and helping. Being raised in different environments has affected the way we think, but not the fact that our brains all work incredibly rapidly and memorize every detail about everything we see.

Baseball Shirt Man: So, what? What matters to me is that we get to the bottom of this and get on with our lives.

Molly Hooper: Perhaps you've forgotten, until Sherlock and I get to the bottom of our mystery, neither of us have a life to go back to.

Studded Jacket Man: Sherlock, I see why you like her.

Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper: We're not like that!

Man Sitting in Chair: Everyone, please. Back to the matter at hand. Alex was going to help us…apparently, he thought that death was more convenient.

Studded Jacket Man: Like that girl who jumped off the tracks a few weeks ago.

[action scenes for the above lines include: Sherlock in a car with another clone that gets shot straight through the skull, the quartet watching the clip of Beth Childs' suicide from Orphan Black, Sherlock looking through Alexander's files, the Irish man inside a warehouse, getting shot in the shoulder by a gaunt figure of a man wearing a parka and a ski mask, Molly punching another unidentified (not a clone) male, silhouette of a woman drawing a gun, the man in the studded jacket kissing someone (at an angle, person cannot be seen) and a lot of gun firing at various people.]

[cut to Sherlock in the passenger seat of a car. He turns to the person in the driver's seat]

Sherlock Holmes: Who are you?

[the woman in the driver's seat turns to face him, revealing herself to be Sarah from Orphan Black.]

Sarah Manning: My name is Sarah Manning, and you're going to help me find my daughter.

[shot changes to show everyone in the car, including the backseat, revealing Cosima Niehaus and Delphine Cormier. Cosima smiles and the screen cuts to black, showing the title.]

_ORPHANLOCK—GENERATION ONE_

_An Orphan Black and Sherlock crossover_

[screen cuts to a shot of the Australian man flirting with Sarah's brother, Felix. Sarah, Sherlock, Cosima, and Molly are watching.]

Cosima Niehaus: Is it disturbing to watch yourself hitting on Sarah's brother?

Sherlock Holmes: Now why would that disturb me?

Molly Hooper: Maybe because that's technically you.

Sarah Manning: Please. At least it's you.

[screen cuts to black]

**/**

**HELLO EVERYONE!**

**I've written other fanfiction before, but this is the first time I've posted anything. This is a preview for a 10-part crossover between Sherlock and Orphan Black. The chapters will come later…I still have a lot to write. The entire fanfic is not in screenplay format: this was a lot easier than posting an excerpt because excerpts don't always give you enough context. It was easier (and a lot of fun :D ) to do a more cinematic approach.**

**NOTE: This is not a crossover with other things Benedict Cumberbatch has been in. That was my original intention, but he does a lot of historical characters, and he does a lot of CHARACTERS generally. So my friend and I teamed up to make a bunch of OCs, who are tributes to actual Orphan Black characters in most cases (Alison, Beth, Cosima, Rachel, Helena, even Felix). So…yeah. :D**

**I hope you like it!**

**Link on my Deviantart: art/ORPHANLOCK-GENERATION-ONE-preview-390998725**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own either show. They belong to BBC and BBC America.**


	2. Hiding In Plain Sight: Part 1

**EPISODE 1: Hiding in Plain Sight**

_**Part I**_

Sherlock stared out the window of the train. It was nighttime out, approximately 23:55 hours. A Saturday. He was due to meet Molly in almost an hour. To discuss his death, a cover and all, how to take down the final part of the criminal web of the psychopathic consulting criminal, James Moriarty. What to do about the fact that John was barely coping. He'd heard from Molly that John had started turning to alcohol. Not becoming a drunk, but on the bad days he'd go to the pub and get so drunk he'd have to practically be dragged to the flat.

He pulled the hoodie over his head when a woman turned to look at him. He was in Canada-chances of him getting recognized were thin. But he wouldn't run the risk. It was bad enough that he'd chosen not to change his hairstyle.

The train stopped. This was the station. He stood up and walked silently out of the train, briefly turning to look both ways to find the exit. It was to his right. He slowly walked towards it.

The station was nearly empty. A few people were walking around here and there. A young woman coming from a late night's work. A mother and her sleeping child. A teenage girl. A twenty-something-year-old boy and his friend, the friend holding the boy as he drunkenly walked towards the end of the station.

Sherlock had seen John like that. From a distance, of course. And it had only happened once, a week after Sherlock's "death". John and some other man were drunk at a pub late one night, and while neither one knew each other, the other man recognized the army doctor. It was one of the times Sherlock wondered why Mycroft hadn't cleared his name sooner (and he still hadn't) because a fight broke out between the two...over the consulting detective. Lestrade, being the voice of rationality (and sobriety) separated the two and helped John get to his home. His new home, rather. The consulting detective watched this all from the shadows.

Sherlock blinked the memory away.

That's when he saw _him._

The man in the suit.

His back was turned to Sherlock, but instantly Sherlock knew something was wrong. He was just his height and build, but his hair was slicked back and he was clearly a businessman of sorts. He seemed completely calm, leaving Sherlock to deduce a few details on his own-the man was not an ordinary businessman.

Businessmen don't calmly leave their briefcases next to them and take off their ties in a train station.

Sherlock got closer. Something was strangely familiar about this man.

Then the man turned around, a calm yet sad expression on his face.

And that's when it hit him.

Sherlock and the man were identical.

Sherlock staggered back in shock, but the other man just stared at him. They had the same skin tone, the same face shape, the same intelligent gray-green eyes, the same heart-shaped lips, the same hair, the same...everything. Down to the cheekbones. Even those were identical. It was like he was staring into a full-body mirror, except his reflection had different clothes.

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded.

The man didn't answer. He just glanced briefly at the briefcase, then back at Sherlock, and smiled.

Sherlock's _exact _smile.

The train on the other side of the tracks could be heard. The man turned, and, almost hypnotized, walked straight towards it.

"No!" Sherlock yelled, but it was too late.

The man walked purposefully off the platform, directly into the path of the oncoming train, and was immediately swept away.

Sherlock stared in absolute horror. Who was that? Why did he have his face? Why did he smile that way? What was in the briefcase? His mind settled on the final question and he raced to pick up the briefcase. He left the tie, slipped the bag over his shoulder, and speed walked down the platform towards the exit.

/

Outside, just as people were running towards where the man had just, for lack of a better word, jumped, Sherlock felt sure that he had not hallucinated. Although his logical mind reminded him that it was a possibility. He walked through the crowd, showing no urgency in his face. Merely confusion, like he had somewhere better to be. Which he did.

He ducked into an alley once he was a safe distance from the train station. Quickly making sure no one was around, he opened the briefcase and found that the man had conveniently left his wallet in there. Is that what he wanted him to see?

Sherlock opened the wallet. G_ucci. _In it was a driver's license, with a picture of him-no, the other person. The identification was written below:

_AXIS, ALEXANDER_

_Date of Birth: 07/26/1974_

_Date of Expiration: 02/18/2014  
Sex: Male_

_Height: 184.15 cm_

_Weight: 66 kg_

God, they were almost the same _weight._

He went through the rest of the wallet. Three credit cards, almost a thousand dollars in cash, several business cards for major corporations in the area. There were a few handwritten addresses as well, some of which had big red X's over them. One caught his eye: some girl named Lana Clay. The card was old, like he'd had it for a really long time.

Another caught his eye. He had to save that one. That one was more important than the rest.

He slipped the wallet back into the briefcase, then opened the bag further. There was a portfolio for contracts, presumably. A pair of sunglasses, too.

Sherlock took out his own cell phone and called the first number on his speed dial.

"_Hello?"_

"Molly, meet me in five minutes. Same place. I have something to show you."

"_Sherlock, what's wrong?"_

"I'll explain everything. Just get there."

"_Um, okay, I guess."_

He hung up abruptly. He was too excited. He left the alleyway and began to walk down the street. He kept wandering through the city, keeping his head low so as not to get discovered. It was only a few minutes past midnight, and there were no cars out on the street at all, except for the ones parked and empty.

Sherlock continued to walk. He used to chase criminals on nights like this in London. With John. Whatever. He pushed the memory out of his head. Those days were behind him.

But how he missed them.

He missed John. He missed the thrill of chasing criminals. He missed being able to terrorize anyone that came his way. He missed being able to speak his mind. He missed coming home to 221B and being greeted by Mrs. Hudson and experimenting in his kitchen while John typed on his blog.

The blog.

Nothing had happened on the blog in four or five months. The last post Sherlock had seen was right after his fall: _"He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him."_ He wanted to get on a plane, go back to London and tell John what had really happened, why he'd gone, who he was after...but of course he couldn't. He couldn't call anyone back home. Only Molly. And Mycroft. Of course he couldn't make his escape without Mycroft's help. But he was more thankful for Molly's, to be honest.

Suddenly, he saw a car speed towards a street not too far away. He knew he shouldn't, but he briskly followed it, walking towards the street that the car had entered. He made an attempt to hide in the shadows as he neared the house, keeping a safe distance away.

The house was ordinary, brick, two stories, small lawn, windows dark and seemingly empty. The car slid to a halt and two people got out-a man and a woman. The man was tall, visibly ex-military, and seemingly emotionless. The girl was medium height, wearing jeans and a leather jacket. Her hair was long, brown, and almost flowing in the cold air.

Sherlock stared at her. He didn't know exactly what the emotion was that he was feeling. He only knew that there was something about the woman that sparked his interest. The strange look of determination in her eyes, the expression of worry, the odd flat color of her hair that indicated that she'd colored it herself. Her face was cut and smeared with blood-she'd just gotten out of a fight. She seemed upset and scared about something.

And she was, in a weird way, _intriguing._

Sherlock blinked the thoughts away. He never found anyone attractive, let alone intriguing. If he had any attraction to anyone at all, it was mental. But this-how could he think something of a woman that he barely-no, didn't know at all?

As soon as the woman walked into the house, Sherlock started to walk away. He got to the corner of the street when suddenly a worried cry filled the entire neighborhood. He couldn't dwell on it, but the one word he heard was going to change his life forever.

"_KIRA!"_

/

Panic ripped through Sarah's chest. Her foster mother's house had been nearly destroyed. Furniture overturned, paper everywhere, the doors left carelessly unlocked. All of the lights were out.

Her mother's-her birth mother's-last act was showing her a photograph of her foster mother in a lab coat, years ago. The names were blocked out, but _Project LEDA _was visible. Did that have something to do with her? With Sarah and her fellow clones?

And did it have to do with the fact that the house was a wreck?

"Siobhan!" she yelled, running and checking through doorways for any sign of the only parent figure she'd had for most, if not all, of her life.

Panic once again tore through her. "Kira!" she called instead, running up the stairs.

No answer from either her foster mother nor Sarah's daughter.

Sarah ran into her daughter's room. The light was on, but things had been overturned, thrown around the room...almost like a fight had broken out. The window was open, the curtains billowing.

She ran towards the window, hoping to see some sign of Kira or Siobhan.

Nothing.

"_KIRA!" _she called into the night.

No answer.

She staggered back from the window, taking out her phone—the pink one, the one that she and her fellow clones used—and pressing her first number on speed dial.

"_Sarah, what's wrong?" _the American voice that was otherwise identical to hers, but with a California twang, asked on the other line.

"Cosima...Kira's..." tears welled up in Sarah's eyes. She slid down, hitting the floor, her back against the bed. "Kira's gone."

"_What? Sarah, what happened?"_

"They took her...I...the house is empty...it was trashed..."

"_Okay, hang on one sec. I'll call Felix and Alison. We can work something out. Everything's going to be okay. Trust me."_

Sarah was somewhat reassured by Cosima's words. "Are you sure you're going to be okay? You didn't accept the offer."

"_I'll be fine, don't worry. I'll-" _Cosima was cut off by the sound of coughing profusely.

"Cosima?"

"_Cosima, what's happening?" _a French accented woman asked on the other line.

The coughing fit lasted several seconds. Cosima sighed when it was over.

"_I'm okay. Sarah, listen, there's an abandoned warehouse nearby. Saw it when I was in Leekies' car. Meet me there. I'll text you the details."_

"Cosima, what happened just now?"

"_I'm...well...I'll tell you later. I'll be fine, don't worry. We'll meet you later."_

"Wait-"

_Beep. _The line went dead. Sarah set her phone down on the floor and brought her knees up to her chest. Despite the tears going down her cheeks, she didn't sob. Kira wouldn't have wanted her to.

She heard footsteps behind her. "Sarah?" a man's voice asked her.

Sarah turned around. Paul Dierden was standing there. She still wasn't sure what to make of him. Friend? Acquaintance? Lover?

"Kira...she..."

"Don't worry," he said calmly. "Everything's going to work out."

"I should've been here. I should've done something."

"There's nothing you could have done. Sarah, if you had been here, you might be gone too." Paul walked over and slid next to her. "And...even after all of this, I don't think I could deal with that."

Sarah sighed and picked up her phone, sliding it into her pocket. She didn't want sympathy—she wasn't the type—but it certainly helped. She refused to show that it did, though, and stood up, straightening the leather jacket that she'd been wearing.

Another beep emanated from her pocket. She pulled out her mobile and looked at the text.

"Cosima wants us to meet here." She showed Paul the phone. "Do you mind driving?"

Paul sighed. "Not at all. Come on."

Sarah nodded and followed him out of the house and into the car parked outside. She slid in the back seat rather than the passenger (she didn't want to run the risk of being seen) and stared calmly out the window while the Afghanistan veteran started the engine. They drove off in silence.

She had a strange feeling, though. Like she was close to someone. Not being watched, but close to someone. Someone she cared about. She turned to Paul. It wasn't coming from him.

Identical twins sometimes felt each other's emotions and physical pain. Sarah frowned. All of the clones were twins to some extent. And she _did _have a twin...but she was dead. Sarah killed her. And it wasn't Kira—Sarah could almost feel that it was someone close to, if not, her age.

Who could possibly be nearby that would trigger this feeling inside her?

/

Sherlock barely noticed the car from earlier when he walked into the pub. He kept the hood on, and his head low, so as not to attract attention.

Molly was sitting at the counter. She wasn't drinking anything, just sitting there, patiently waiting for her friend. Sherlock snuck up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Molly," he whispered.

She whirled around and yelped, then started giggling. "Jesus, don't do that!"

He smiled and slid in next to her. "How've you been?"

"That's abnormally civil of you. I'm fine, thanks. How was your trip?"

"It went relatively well. No one asked me any questions." He sighed and slid the ID that Mycroft had given him over to Molly. "I have no use for this anymore. It expires tomorrow."

Molly took it.

The bartender came over. He was tall, muscular, bald with stubble, tattoos along his left arm...the stereotypical bartender. "You lovebirds planning on ordering anything?"

Sherlock put on a Canadian accent. "No thanks."

The accent was crude, unpracticed (Sherlock always trusted his own acting talent to be enough, but, given that he'd faked his death, he'd been experimenting with accents), but apparently convincing enough for the bartender to ignore him. The man left in search of other customers.

"You seem tense."

"How so?"

"You just...do. Your sentences are shorter than normal and you keep looking away from me."

Sherlock sighed again. Molly's observations were strengthening. "Something happened at the train station."

"What?" Molly asked, concerned. Something terrible must have happened for it to put Sherlock off so much.

"I saw someone commit suicide."

"Oh God."

"There's more." Sherlock set the briefcase on the counter. He took out Alexander's wallet and showed Molly the license.

She stared in shock. "That's..."

"I know." He set it down. "He smiled at me as well. The exact same way I do. Almost...signaling to me. Telling me to take the briefcase."

"So you robbed his body?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He _told _me to."

"He didn't verbalize it."

"Molly, I took a risk. Isn't that what people do?"

She leaned closer. "You just robbed a dead body. Don't expect me to just accept it."

"Spare me your scolding. I thought it might prove useful."

Silence.

Sherlock and Molly looked away from each other and stared at the bar counter in front of them.

"So what are you going to do?" she asked him softly.

"I need a cover, so I can finish taking down Morairty's web and remain unnoticed," Sherlock answered.

Molly stared at him. "So, what, you're just going to assume the life of a random man who just so happens to look like you?"

"Yes. And he's not just a random man, he's a criminal."

Molly gave him another look.

Sherlock fished out a business card with the letters _J.M. _on it, along with a phone number. "I found this."

"That could be anybody."

He flipped it over. On the back, it said:

_Thank you, Alex!_

_Your reward is half of the money you stole. Your price is that if _I _need something, you have to respond immediately. No excuses. Those are for the weak._

_Call me if you need anything!_

_-Jim_

"Never mind," Molly said, sighing.

"I have to finish destroying Moriarty's web. I'll do well on the inside."

"But who's going to ID the body?" Molly leaned closer. "Sherlock, you're...dead."

Sherlock looked away. "I don't know. But it doesn't matter."

"Sherlock, it does matter! What if John finds out?"

Silence.

Molly put her hand on Sherlock's. Not in a romantic way-she had come to terms with the fact that they would never be that way, no matter how much she wanted to-but in a friendly way. "I'm sorry. I..."

"No. It's alright. That thought crossed my mind too."

"Did it? Really?"

"Every possible issue or solution has crossed my mind at some point. Whether or not I register it is irrelevant."

Molly sighed. "Did you register it?"

"I said it was irrelevant."

Neither one said anything for a while. Eventually Molly did buy a Heineken for herself, because the bartender was eying them annoyingly and she wasn't quite in the mood to talk anymore.

Sherlock stood up from his seat and slipped the briefcase back over his shoulder. "I'd better be off."

"Okay." As Sherlock was leaving, Molly turned around. "Wait...one more thing."

Sherlock turned around. "Yes?"

She smiled. "Good luck."

/

By the time Sarah and Paul got to the warehouse, Cosima, Felix, and Delphine were already there. Felix seemed mildly annoyed by Paul's appearance, but, unusually for him, refrained from saying anything. The gravity of the situation hit everyone in the face.

"Where's Alison?" Sarah asked, confused by the absence of the soccer mom.

"She wasn't answering," Cosima said, looking down through her cat-eye glasses. "She said she might take the offer..."

Felix shook his head. "Honestly, I expected better. She could've gotten it together without selling herself to a bunch of psychos."

"Oi," Sarah said, punching her adoptive brother in the arm. "I was about to sell myself to them too."

"She has a point." Cosima nudged her clone out of the way. "Guys, we need a plan. We can't go back out there without one."

Delphine-or at least, that's who Sarah assumed it was, as she had never met the woman herself-stepped forward. "We can hide here. I can go out and get supplies for us. They'll be looking for you two, not me."

"That might not work. Leekie knows you're compromised."

"That doesn't help my situation either," Paul said. He held his hand out to Delphine. "Paul Dierden."

"Delphine Cormier," she answered politely, taking his hand.

"I'm Sarah," Sarah said, holding her hand out.

Delphine took it and smiled. "I saw your picture."

"Don't remind me," Cosima said.

"Guys," Felix said, butting in, "we still need a plan. If you want, I can be the one who goes out and gets supplies. I can _easily _lead everyone off our tracks."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "You are _not _going out there. Besides, they'll be looking for you."

Felix clicked his tongue. "You're right. Dammit."

"So no one can leave the warehouse, is that what I'm getting at?" Cosima said in her California accent. "Come on guys, we need a better plan than that."

"They're not going to flat out capture us, though..." Delphine realized. "Helena...she was the other one right? The one that was after you?"

"Yes. And she's dead. I shot her." Sarah looked away.

"Well, they'll want you to reconsider your decision. So you give them the patent rights willingly."

"Patent rights?" Felix asked.

"We've been patented, Fee. We're property." His sister closed her eyes. "It's why they took Kira."

"Jesus."

"Yeah, don't bring him into all of this. Helena kept doing that. He shouldn't be involved."

"My point is," Delphine continued, "that they'll make us all reconsider. You, Cosima, Felix, Paul, me...they'll make everyone reconsider."

"So they're just going to leave us alone?" Cosima asked.

"It's logical," Paul said. "I mean, they'll send us threats over a period of time. That's how they recruited me. They'll leave us alone with our guilt for a while...then they'll give us a deadline to respond by. If we don't, they'll repeat."

"How much time do we have?"

"About...a month?"

Sarah sighed. "Well, what do we do during that time?"

"Find Kira," Cosima started. "Get Alison back on. And...finish decoding my DNA."

"What, you didn't finish?" Felix asked. "You were at it for hours."

"Well, the length of the human genome is insane. I panicked after I knew it was a patent. Plus, it was midnight. I'd run out of time anyway."

"I'll help her," Delphine said, cautiously putting a hand on Cosima's shoulder. "We can get a good part of this done by the end of the week."

Sarah nodded. "Well, I have another plan."

"What's that?" Paul asked.

She turned to Felix. "Fee, I need you to dye my hair back again."

Felix was a bit startled by the remark. "Um...I...okay."

"The secret to a good disguise is hiding in plain sight." She smiled. "I want my old look back."

Sherlock turned the key in the door of Alex's apartment and went inside. He walked around-one bedroom, but evidence that another person visited periodically. Kitchen, living room, Not Sherlock's taste. But still nice. Very sleek and modern...simplistic, yes, but very nice. Leather couch, television, state-of-the-art kitchen, Mac Pro computer (Sherlock preferred a PC but he was quite familiar with Macs) and a bed with silk sheets and a thin comforter. Light sleeper, apparently.

There was a writing tablet sitting on the counter in the kitchen. On it was a note, in a woman's handwriting. It read:

"_Hi, Alex! I'll be back by Friday. I have some stupid conference to go to. I'll see you when you get home! Love, Lana."_

Sherlock could tell that it was left that night.

He double-checked to make sure the door was locked, then went to the computer. He was prompted for a password upon entering. He thought back to his first case with John...people tended to make their passwords about people they cared about.

He typed in four letters.

_L._

_A._

_N._

_A._

The password was accepted.

Sherlock smirked.

There were only three folders on screen. _Work. Personal. Private. _To understand a person, you have to look at personal info. But more than the normal personal info-you had to get to the bottom of the person's life. The good and the bad. So he clicked the folder that seemed appropriate.

In the folder labeled _Private, _there was only a single video. Curious, he clicked it.

The video buffered almost instantly.

Alexander was sitting there, staring at the computer webcam. He seemed disheveled, like he'd taken the video early in the morning. Despite the evident tiredness, his eyes were intelligent and alert.

Then he said the words that would haunt Sherlock for the rest of his life.

"_Hello, Sherlock Holmes."_

_/_

**THERE WE GO! THE FIRST PART OF THE FIRST "EPISODE"!**

**The episode titles are based off of quotes from Sherlock. So there will be more to come...each quote has to do with the theme of the episode. In this case, "Hiding In Plain Sight" has to do with the whole I-need-a-cover thing.**

**More chapters to come. Please review :D**


	3. Hiding In Plain Sight: Part 2

**Episode 1: Hiding in Plain Sight**

_**Part II**_

Sherlock had to suspend his disbelief at the screen.

The man on the screen smiled. _"Don't worry. I know it's you. And don't worry. I'm not going to report you. I mean, I can't exactly do that without drawing attention to myself. "_

The consulting detective stared in shock.

"_Look, I know you're shocked and all, but I've been watching you for a while. My job lets me do that with ease." _He smiled. He seemed so real, even after death.

"_You're probably wondering why I killed myself. You ever seen the movie 'I, Robot'? Probably not. You're not the kind of person who watches movies. I got that off your friend's blog."_

So he read John's blog. Just how much did this Alexander person know about him?

"_Maybe I should try a better reference…Hansel and Gretel. You know, two kids go into the woods and leave a trail of bread crumbs so they can find their way back home? The point is, I'm leaving you a trail of bread crumbs. Clues. One after the other. The first would be...well, you know. I'll give you the second soon enough."_

Sherlock almost smiled. Even if they looked alike, Alexander seemed so…normal. He seemed intelligent, but they both had a different way of speaking. Sherlock was really fast and technical; Alexander was very slow and tended to use analogies more often than he stuck to the facts.

"_Anyways, I know what you're running from. So here. I can't cope with this life anymore. The things I've done, the things I've learned, the things that have happened...and Lana. God, I can't look her in the face again, knowing what I know now. Everything I thought I knew, I didn't. And now what's been proven to me..."_

Sherlock didn't understand how excessive stress could push this man to kill himself, but he wanted to see what this man was saying.

"_Look, I know why you faked your own death. It was kind of obvious. Jim Moriarty filled me in when I started getting roped up in this whole mess. He framed you. I know. He made it seem like everything you did was a big elaborate lie. Well, my _life_ was a big elaborate lie from the moment I was conceived."_

That would typically be an exaggeration, but Sherlock sensed that it wasn't.

"_So I'm offering something to you. I'm giving you my life. You don't need to take it, you can just have it. Besides, if you take my life, it will lead you many different and interesting directions." _He smiled. _"Some you will think are unexpected. But everything will make sense at some point. If you don't find us, we'll find you."_

We? At first Sherlock wondered how a dead man could possibly find him. It took him a second to realize that what the man had just said was the same clue that he'd been talking about earlier.

"_Everything you need is in the house. I already took a few days' leave to give you time to prepare. I'm due back by Wednesday. Lana said she won't be back until Friday. That gives you a good four days to prepare for work, and almost a week to prepare for my girlfriend. Fooling her is going to be harder." _Another smile. _"My name is Alex Axis, and I'm signing off."_

The video ended. Sherlock ripped his phone out and dialed Molly again.

The answer was, again, almost immediate. _"What happened?"_

"Molly, I'm in Alexander's house," Sherlock said. "Or, Alex, as he apparently refers to himself."

"_What do you mean?"_

"He knew who I was. He left me a video."

"_Oh God..."_

"I think he knew everything that happened at St. Barts."

"_How? I didn't tell anyone, and the only person you told was Mycroft."_

"No, I know that." Sherlock put his cell phone on speaker and placed it on the table, leaning back in the chair and steepling his fingers. "If you recall, I deduced that he was a criminal. Perhaps he is like my brother."

"_Your brother's the British Government. He wouldn't commit a crime unless it benefited the country somehow."_

"That's not what I meant." He paused. "My brother has a tendency to watch me. Street cameras, hidden cameras, anything. This Alex person probably has connections."

"_So you think he could have been watching you this whole time?"_

"Possibly. Or he had someone else watching me."

"_What? What did he say?"_

"He said, 'if you don't find us, we'll find you.'"

Silence on both ends. _"What does that mean?"_

"I don't know. But I'm not going to bother trying to find them. They'll find me."

"_So...what now? You're just going to take his life?"_

"Actually, he offered it."

"_What?"_

"How's my Canadian accent, Molly? I used it at the pub today."

Sherlock could almost hear the meek, embarrassed smile on the other line. _"No offense, Sherlock...but...it's not very good. Rubbish, actually."_

He smiled. "I'll work on it. Good night, Molly."

"_Good night, Sherlock."_

_Click._

/

The air was cold against the man's skin. Frost emerged from his chapped lips as he exhaled. His eyes closed and he smiled, breathing again. He was thankful for his life.

He wasn't sure where he'd be right now. Dead, most likely. In a morgue somewhere in the city while people try to figure out what was wrong with him. The self-inflicted wings on his back. The dehydration. The starved body. The hair that was dyed blond but clearly dark.

They'd make a ton of guesses.

But they'd never know the truth.

He walked down through the parking lot. It was empty…too empty for an Ottawa parking lot, but he'd take it. He could see the red glow off in the distance, which appeared to have been caused by a flare of some kind.

He followed it, knowing it would take him to where he needed to go.

He stopped.

And there she was.

Lying there, arms and legs sprawled, bullet cutting through her punk rock shirt. Not hers. She wasn't the kind of girl who'd listen to something like that. She didn't listen to any music, not really. Except for psalms.

Her eyes gazed sightlessly at the ceiling. Her lips were ever so slightly parted. Her hair was laid out below her head like wings. She was so beautiful, in a strange, twisted way. A mirror image of the man himself.

The man put a hand against her face, brushing her eyes closed. His long fingers, clad in leather gloves, snaked under the body and picked her up. She lay limp in his arms, but he was just glad that she was there.

He let her head rest against his chest, even though she wouldn't appreciate the gesture.

"_Rest, my angel," _he whispered. _"It will all be over soon."_

He started to walk out with her. She was very light. Maybe she _was _an angel.

Then he saw the drawings.

All over the walls. That same figure. Over and over again. The girl. Identical to all the others.

The man looked at his left hand. Large gash. His employer had done that to him earlier that day. A promise.

As best he could, he brushed his fingers on his right hand against the wound. Right next to the figure of one of the girls, he drew, in his own blood, another figure. This time, it was the figure of a boy.

Two little kids in a field near a convent in Ukraine.

Playing with dolls. He never liked dolls, but he respected them. Sometimes they represented people. Hers did. And he respected her. So he played with the dolls.

It was fun to be a child.

He missed that time. The beautiful innocence as they played in the fields, the lack of responsibility, the worlds they created in their minds to escape all of the bad things in the world. There was no killing, no hatred, no evil…just happiness.

The man blinked out of his reverie, returning to the parking lot and the fallen angel in his arms. They weren't children anymore, even though he wanted to believe that.

Only children played games. Only they got lost in the worlds of their imagination. Only they were completely innocent.

He'd lost his innocence a long time ago.

And he knew he could never get it back.

/

_FIVE HOURS LATER_

Detective Art Bell was sitting at his desk, drinking coffee at five in the morning. Cream, no sugar.

He was still trying to wrap his head around what had happened the previous day. How many Beths were there? How many Sarahs? There was the one who who'd fallen in front of the train, the one that pretended to be her for several weeks, the German who'd died, and now...suburban soccer mom? They all looked the same, and yet...none of them WERE the same.

His coworker Angie came over. "Rough night, huh? Don't usually see you here this early."

Art looked at his coffee. "You don't check in this early either."

"Touché." She sipped her coffee. "I stayed up all night thinking of Sarah Manning."

"Yeah, same here. What do you think is going on?"

She shrugged. "I have no clue. I thought clones might be possible, but...that's illegal."

"Quadrupets could work. But the DNA and fingerprints were almost exactly the same. And even quadruplets don't look so similar, but the faces were identical."

"What if they're...like, the start of some superior race or something?" She smiled. She'd intended it as a joke, but in both their minds, it was entirely possible.

"I don't know. Maybe. To be honest, I don't know what to think about this anymore."

The phone rang. Art picked it up. "Detective Arthur Bell," he said in an official tone.

"_There's a visitor here for you," _the secretary said.

Art and Angie turned to see the woman in question standing at the door. When she could see that the cops were aware of her appearance, she walked over.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Art asked.

"I need your help," Sarah said simply. She had changed her clothes now—leather jacket, a British punk rock t-shirt, black jeans. Her hair was down and straightened, like Beth's was, but her makeup was different: thick black eyeliner, black eye shadow, no lipstick. Same face, different person.

"Well, that's convenient, because we need yours," Angie said, sipping her coffee. "Can you explain—?"

"Why Beth and I look exactly alike? Why our fingerprints match? Why the DNA's screwed up? Sure, all of that. I can tell you everything. But, in exchange, I need your help."

Art leaned back in his chair. "And why should we help you?"

"Like I said in the message on my—Beth's—phone, you're about the only person I trust to figure the whole thing out. Angie," Sarah said, turning to her, "I'm extending that to you."

"Thanks," she said.

"I'm not lying. I've got a brother, but he's kind of useless sometimes. And Paul says he'll help me, but…" she sighed. "…I have my doubts."

"What do you need our help with?" Art asked, his voice stern but his eyes curious.

"I won't bother asking for your help if you won't. But I need your help _now. _So I'll give you until midnight to think about it. And I promise you…" Sarah took out a pile of pictures from her pocket and dropped them on the table—pictures of her, Cosima, Alison, Katja, and the other Euros. "…if you help me, I will explain everything."

The two cops stared in shock at the pictures on the desk.

"Call me. You know what number." She turned around and left, leaving even innocent bystanders confused.

/

Sherlock started investigating his cover's house. Pieces of Alex's personality started to fall into place. He began to note things in his mind:

1) diagnosed with dysthymia; medicated for it and good at hiding the fact that he has—_had_—it; only his close friends were aware of this fact

2) probably in one of the higher positions at his job (apparently, he worked at a law firm, but it seemed that more often than not, they asked him for other favors)

3) often bought things for his girlfriend (receipts for women's jewelry and such)

4) close with his coworkers (lots of birthday and Christmas presents that weren't from Lana or anyone in the Axis family)

5) kept good financial records

6) paid his bills on time and had paid the rent for the rest of the year (he really _did _prepare for Sherlock's arrival)

7) privileged childhood

8) dead parents (scrapbooks that were obviously made by his mother that he filled in after her death)

9) only child (which explains all of the attention he got from his family)

Fitting these all together was not going to be difficult. Sherlock had already seen Alex's mannerisms in the video (as well as some family videos that were in the DVD box.) He did an incredibly amateur thing: practicing his act for hours in front of the mirror.

He studied the videos constantly, repeating words back at the screen in order to get the accent right. He memorized important pieces of information: bank account numbers, passwords, names of important people in Alex's life (coworkers and such).

After five hours of doing this, Sherlock had a big part of the information memorized, but his act was still not very good. He was a fast learner, so he figured that he'd have the accent down in a few more hours, and the personality down by the time he went to work.

He'd found some interesting items, though. There was a handgun, a pocket knife, and a great deal of security cameras (nanny cams). All of the memory was saved onto his computer. He seemed to only turn them on when Lana (a young redheaded woman) was visiting. He'd figure out the motive for that later.

His phone rang. He was still using the burn phone that Mycroft had given him.

Sherlock picked up and put it on speaker. "Alex Axis speaking," he said, using the accent he was training himself to use.

"_No, it's Sherlock Holmes speaking. And Sherlock Holmes has some work to do on that voice," _Molly said on the other line.

Sherlock smiled, but kept the accent going. "Well, as people say, 'practice makes perfect'."

"_You pronounce the 'a's wrong."_

"Well, how am I supposed to pronounce them?"

"_Like a person from Canada."_

"Well, how do they pronounce them?"

"_Open your mouth a little more, so it sounds more like _eh. _Does that make sense?"_

Sherlock went to the bathroom, setting the phone down next to the mirror. He started combing his hair back, using the driver's license picture as a guide. "When did you become an expert in accents?"

"_I did an acting class when I was in high school. I was never very good at it, but I learned how to speak in different dialects. Never thought it would serve me as well as it did."_

He let that all sink in. "So, how is your new job at the morgue going?"

"_Not badly. Today's my first day on the job. Apparently, we have a John Doe in. I think it's Alex."_

Sherlock stopped combing his hair and let the accent drop completely. "What are you going to do?"

"_Well, I…I don't know, what's your plan?"_

He came up with one in an instant and started combing his hair again. "Moriarty's web probably knows I'm alive. ID the body as me, so then they will have some assurance that the body is me. That business card and the video I saw imply that the web viewed Alex as an asset. I can use that to my advantage. They'll think Alex is alive, and they'll think I'm dead."

"_So you're faking your death again?"_

"Yes."

"_Sherlock, _I _filled out your paperwork when you died! How do I explain that you're alive now? You were buried!"_

"Molly, tell them that you didn't know anything about this. You can say that you didn't test my blood—that much is true. Say that you performed the autopsy—because you did. Say anything you think you need to say. You have to make your case."

"_What if John hears about this and comes? Sherlock, he's your best friend! If he comes here, he might run into you on the street!"_

"No, he won't."

"_Why not?"_

Sherlock finished combing his hair and stood up straight, his mouth turned in a slight smile. He turned the accent back on, this time taking Molly's advice into account.

"He'll run into Alex."

He hung up.

/

_ONE HOUR LATER_

"Miss Hooper?" a morgue attendant asked Molly when she entered the room.

"Call me Molly," she said, smiling and shaking the man's hand. He was tall, blond, with blue eyes and skin that was pale from staying indoors so much.

"Noah." He smiled. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"No. I'm from London. I used to do post-mortems at St. Bartholomew's Hospital."

"Ah, okay. I think I've heard of it."

She smiled, then her face turned grim. "It's famous, alright. For the wrong reasons."

"Oh. I probably shouldn't have asked."

"It's okay. It's in the past now." She turned to the body bag. "Who do we have here?"

"John Doe. Fell in front of a train at approximately midnight last night. He died on impact." Noah sighed. "That's how I want to go out, you know? I mean…not the suicide part of it, but I want to go quickly, so I don't know when I'm dead."

Molly nodded. "I want to know when I die. So I'm ready for it."

"Oh…okay. That…that works too."

She smiled a little halfheartedly. "I'm sorry if I scare you."

"No, it's fine. It's just an unusual answer."

She shrugged. "I used to think the way you did. I take it you're new at the job?"

"I got out of school last year."

"Yeah. Your perspective might change over the years. It always does." She wasn't lying. Her outlook on the world before and after Sherlock's fake suicide had changed. Lestrade actually commented that she seemed more serious, less cheerful, and angrier after the suicide. No one blamed her, because they always knew she was close to him.

No one guessed the real reason.

"Okay." Noah began to unzip the body bag.

Molly clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.

The body looked exactly like Sherlock's.

She'd expected this, but she couldn't have prepared herself enough. The gray-green eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. His skin was gray, but much paler than most people's. He was tall and thin, but still had very good muscle tone. His hair was dark, and most definitely naturally curly, but had been straightened. But the most frightening thing was probably that, even though the body was dead, still had the glimmer of a smile on his heart shaped lips.

"Molly?" Noah asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

She stared at the body, then looked up. "I think I have."

_APPROXIMATELY FIVE HOURS LATER_

"So, this is how you normally do your hair?" Cosima asked, watching as Felix was prepping Sarah's hair for dyeing. They'd practically moved into the warehouse already—Sarah and Paul managed to get pillows, Felix brought blankets, Delphine had set up wi-fi, and she and Cosima had gone on a food run. Each person got their own area of the warehouse (Felix had been annoyingly particular in picking the least dusty place that was not next to any windows), and they'd managed to make a makeshift bathroom. There already was one in the warehouse, but it needed to be cleaned. _Really _cleaned.

"Yeah…or at least, it's how I like to do it." Sarah yelped as Felix yanked on her hair. She turned to him. "Can you _not?"_

"_I'm _sorry," he said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "But it's not my fault you didn't bother combing your hair before we did this."

"I _did _brush my hair!"

"Sarah, if _this _is what you call _brushed_, you need serious help."

"I brushed it for almost five minutes!"

"No, you brushed it for two minutes. I know because I counted."

"You count minutes when she brushes her hair?" Cosima asked.

"When I'm about to do it, yes."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Please, just start dyeing it already."

"If you think _I_ am going to dye your hair when it's _this _messy, you are so wrong."

"If you react this way with her hair, you're going to hate mine." Cosima fingered her dreadlocks.

"Believe me, I already do. Well, I don't hate the style, but I'd hate having to brush that bird's nest."

Delphine came in with a cup holder stocked up with Venti coffees from Starbucks. "I figured we'd all need some," she said smiling.

"Delphine, you are a _saint,"_ Cosima said, taking a coffee cup.

"Hardly. I just know what people need." She handed the coffees around, saving one for Paul. "Anyone know where Paul is?"

"Bathroom," the other three said in unison.

"Which one?"

"The old one. He thought if we were going to be here for a while, we might as well get a clean, working bathroom." Felix sighed and took out a box of hair dye. "I don't get it. A military guy like him comes into a warehouse and decides to clean the bathroom? Isn't he used to dirty conditions? He was in Afghanistan. What's his problem?"

"You," Sarah teased. "All that fuss you made over it when we came in."

"Hey, it was _unsanitary. _I would do your hair in there, butthat whole bathroom reeks. I can't stay in there for more than a few seconds without getting a sinus infection."

Cosima laughed. "It hasn't been used in ages. What do you expect?"

"With Felix, he expects everything to be like the bathrooms at the upscale casinos in Las Vegas." Sarah turned to her brother. "Now shut up and do my hair."

"You've been to Las Vegas?" Delphine asked, interested.

"Yeah, once." Felix started to highlight Sarah's hair. "Lovely town, but the casinos are everywhere. Every hotel has one. Even the _airport _has slot machines. Although those weren't too bad…Sarah made a couple hundred off of those."

"No way," Cosima said, smiling.

Sarah smiled. "I didn't do much with the money. I took Fee to see a _Cirque du Soleil_ show and that's about it."

"Still amazing."

Suddenly Paul came out of the bathroom. His t-shirt was covered with grime, but his hands were clean (he'd been wearing gloves.) He handed Sarah her phone. "You got a text."

Sarah took the phone and looked at the screen. It was a text from Art.

**We need to talk. Meet me in two hours. I'll email you the location.**

"I think I might have a deal with Art and Angie," she remarked.

"Great! With the police's cooperation, we'll be able to accomplish a lot more." Cosima leaned back, her face filled with excitement and approval.

"Are you sure it's a good idea to get the police's help so soon?" Paul asked.

"We need all the help we can get," Sarah said, almost confused as to why Paul would ask a question like that.

"That's great. Now hold still while I highlight your hair. There's no way you're going to see Art looking like this." He continued his work and frowned when the brush caught on her brown hair. "Jesus Christ, how many are there?"

Everyone sighed in unison. _"Felix…"_

_TWO HOURS LATER_

Molly heard a knock on her door and immediately answered. Sherlock was standing there, wearing a suit. Well, he often wore a suit, but this time it was different. The suit was dark blue, and while the white shirt was of fine material, it wasn't the silk that Molly was accustomed to seeing Sherlock wear. His hair had been slicked back, so it appeared more businesslike. He was wearing cologne, which was also unusual.

"Well, you've transformed," she remarked, smiling.

He smiled back. "So to speak," he said, putting his accent on

"Your accent is coming along." She motioned for him to come inside. "So, when are you going to work?"

"Two days. I want to make sure I have everything exactly right before I go."

"Okay." She sat down. Her apartment didn't have much—a living room with a couch, telly, and coffee table; a kitchen with a small table and a stocked fridge; and a bedroom with a bed and a closet. She'd had to leave her kitten back in London…Mycroft, oddly enough, offered to take care of him for her. She assumed that he'd given the kitten to Anthea (with whom she'd had a brief conversation with, but she seemed nice enough.) "Can I get you anything?"

"No thanks." Sherlock kept the accent but went into his normal thinking position. "How was work today?"

"I identified the body as you."

Silence fell between them. "What questions were asked?"

"Just basic stuff…you know, how you died, what I remembered about the autopsy, stuff like that."

"Good. We should keep it that way."

"They called Mycroft though."

Sherlock cocked his head in her direction. "What did he say?"

"He covered you. He backed me up on everything I said…minus the stuff that he wouldn't have known about, since he wasn't in the morgue at the time. He called me afterwards, asked me what happened. I told him you were alive and had made arrangements."

Sherlock nodded. "Good. I trust you more than I trust him."

"Sherlock, he's your brother. I think he trusts you…why don't you return the favor?"

"We've been distant ever since I was younger. He separated himself from me. If I went into a room, he left. It wasn't until after uni that he started paying attention to me." He put his fingers to his temples. "You know how Sergeant Donovan calls me a freak?"

"How could I not?"

"Mycroft called me one first."

Molly covered her hand with her mouth in shock.

"I was five. He was twelve. I forget exactly what the context was, but he called me a freak and ran into the house. I can only assume that my mother chastised him, because he apologized for it immediately after. Not genuinely…he still seemed angry with me for several days."

"So that's why you're so distant from everyone else?"

"There are a number of reasons. But yes, that is one of them."

"Sherlock, I'm sorry."

He dropped his hands, and with it, the accent. "What's there to be sorry for? It wasn't your fault."

"I'm just sorry you had to go through it."

He stood up. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"Well, still." She stood up and put a hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock sighed and put his hand over hers, removing it from his shoulder. "I appreciate it. But what's past is past. We have to focus more on what's ahead of us."

"You can't focus on what's ahead of you without remembering what's behind you," she said.

Sherlock frowned at her.

Molly suddenly held up a coffee mug. It was steaming, filled with a dark brown liquid. "Which is why, when I heard you were coming here, even if you said no, I made you some. Black, two sugars."

He took it, his disposition softening. "Thank you."

"Well, Mrs. Hudson's not around, so someone's got to take care of you." She sat down on the couch, keeping her distance but still close enough to comfort Sherlock if he needed it.

"What are you going to do if they call John?"

"Well, Mycroft actually asked for the body to be preserved in cryogenics. From what he told me privately, he'd rather not have the family know that you died again."

"No…" Sherlock frowned again. "That's not like Mycroft. He would have just shipped my body off to a foreign country under a different name, staged a funeral with mourners and everything, then buried me."

"How do you know that's what he'd do?"

"He did the same thing with two different pairs of twin assassins. When one was killed and the other one was identified as being the one that had been killed before, he buried the body under a different name. It was respect wrapped in a lie."

"So…if someone who looked like you and was identified as you was found dead after you had died…"

"The government never learns. They repeat the same strategies over and over again." Sherlock thought back to his encounter on Flight 007 with Irene Adler and his brother. It was the same strategy from the Coventry Conundrum from World War II—the way not to reveal that they'd broken the terrorists' code was to let their bombing happen.

"Then why would Mycroft change his plans?"

"I am still not sure." He smiled. "Molly…this is like a case"

"No. Sherlock, you can't get caught up in a case when you're supposed to be undercover."

"A dead man who looks like me, my brother's change of behavior…it's practically calling me."

Molly sighed. "If there are any developments, I'll let you know. But I'm not going to go searching unless something catches my eye."

He nodded. "That's fair."

"Okay." She sighed and smiled. "Well, what do you want to do?"

Sherlock took out a sheet of paper, Alex's wallet, and a pen. "The paper has information about Alex on it. I need you to test me."

Molly nodded and took the paper. "Okay…go."

Sherlock began to recite the information in Alex's voice. "Alexander Axis. No middle name. Born July 26, 1974. Enrolled in private school. Graduated early in 1986 after skipping sixth and eleventh grade. Got an LLB and LLM at University of Toronto. Became a criminal defense attorney in 1995. Currently working at Bruce, Muse & Wilkshire. Has a good relationship with coworkers and clients."

"What about family?"

"Adopted. His adoptive parents were William and Xanthe Axis. Both of them died in a car accident, 2005. No siblings, no extended family. He's currently in a relationship with a young Lana Clay, who works as a computer programmer."

She smiled. "Pretty good."

"Why _pretty _good?"

"You left out some of his favorite things."

Sherlock frowned. "Why do you need to know that?"

"It will help you when you're acting."

He sighed. "Alex's favorite book is _Paper Towns _by John Green. His favorite movie is _The Return of the King. _His favorite food is sushi, specifically California rolls. He goes to an office around the corner from his office frequently…every Thursday, to be specifically." When Molly gave him a look, he simply said, "Facebook."

"Oh," she said. "Perfect, Sherlock, you got it right."

"Thank you."

"I think you're ready for now."

Sherlock nodded, but he still felt uneasy. Not about the act, but the dangers that might come. "I hope so."

/

Art was sitting at the booth when Sarah walked in.

"So…this is how you normally look?" he asked, gesturing to her hairstyle.

She nodded, then slid into the booth. "I figured…well, my secret's out. And I liked my old look. So I went back to it."

He nodded. "So…what do you need help with?"

"Depends. Will you help me?"

"Depends."

She sighed. "We need answers. Many of the answers you want are the same that we need. If we join together, we can accomplish more."

Art gave her a look. "I don't know you as well as I know Beth, but I can still read you pretty well. And I can tell that that's not the only thing you're going to ask for."

Sarah leaned forward on the table. "You know about my daughter."

"I read about her in your file. She lives with your foster mother, right?"

"She _did. _She was kidnapped."

"So you need me to help find her?"

"She's more valuable than you think. The people who took her. . .who knows what they'd do to her?"

"What kind of people?"

"I'll explain everything, but I _have _to know that I'll have your support and protection in trying to find her. I know, it's not something you're inclined to give to an ex-con that was arrested for fraud and assault, but…" she sighed. "…you really _are_ one of the only people I trust right now."

Art looked at her for a long time.

Finally, he said, "Angie and I talked earlier. We're too deep in this to just let it go. We lost sleep last night over it. We need answers."

Sarah smiled. "Deal?"

Art nodded. "Deal."

They shook hands.

"So, where do we start?" he asked.

"From the beginning."

"Then shoot."

She leaned back. "Well, I guess it started on the platform at the train station…"

/

_TWO DAYS LATER_

Sherlock got ready for work. He took the gun that he'd found and tucked them in his pants, slipping the blazer over him. His back would be completely concealed, so no one would notice the weapon. He also kept the pocket knife with him. He picked up the briefcase and left.

He walked outside and locked the door. Apparently, the man had walked all the way to the train station—the black Audi A6 was still parked out front.

He slicked his hair back, mirroring Alex's habit. He took the car keys out and unlocked the car, walking over to the driver's side (the side in Canada, not the one in England). As if it was any other day, he got in and put the key in the ignition.

As he was about to drive away, Sherlock felt a hand on his shoulder.

He whirled around, and found himself face to face with...himself.

There was another man in the car who looked just like him.

Well, almost. They were both wearing suits, but the man in the backseat was wearing a pale cream, almost white color. His hair was dark brown, with a reddish tint. His gray eyes were wide and fearful.

"Alex!" the man almost yelled. He had a (very evident) Eastern European accent.

Sherlock jumped, which was how he assumed Alex would have reacted (Sherlock otherwise would have not reacted). "Jesus!" he yelled. "Don't do that!"

"Alex, do not vorry – eez me."

Sherlock still stared at the new man's face. Just how many people looked like him? "Um..." He probably would have said something else, more intelligent, but he was putting on an act.

The man sighed. "So sorry. I know eez shock. I saw it vith the others. I vill formally introduce myself vhen we do not have the screen betveen us." The man held his hand out. "My name eez Maxim."

Sherlock stared at it for a moment, then took it. "Alex."

"Very nice to meet chu. Now drive!"

"Calm down," Sherlock said, trying to contain himself. "Listen, Maxim…I have to go to work. Can we talk about this later?"

"I brought the invormation you requested. Ve must go back to my hotel, _now."_

"I can't." He thought of an excuse, fast. "If anyone hears I'm late for work, they're going to start asking questions."

Maxim shook his head. "Deez cannot vait. Zee briefcase is back at my hotel. I did not vant to give it to you here because…jou know."

Sherlock did not know, but he pretended that he did. Again, his mind raced as he improvised. "We should talk in private. I know a place near the river…I'll drive there."

"Very vell. Go!"

"Alright! God, don't be so pushy."

They drove mostly in silence. When Maxim offered to explain everything in the car, Sherlock insisted that they not speak. He needed to get all of the answers straight out of him…most likely, this new man would assume that Sherlock knew everything, and because of that he would explain nothing. He needed more than what the man would give him. Also, Sherlock had no idea what questions to even ask. What do you ask a man who looks just like you?

Finally, they reached the location that Sherlock had in mind—an isolated area at the end of a dirt road, just north of the Ottawa River. It was enclosed by a small field and some trees just a little further inland. It was completely isolated from the rest of the world.

The two men got out of the car, Sherlock reaching to grab his weapon calmly.

"Alex, first—"

"No," Sherlock said, dropping the act completely. He pulled out the gun and quickly leveled it to Maxim's head.

Maxim seemed startled at first, then he smiled. "I should have known. You do not have a mark."

Sherlock stared, puzzled. "What?"

The man cocked his head to one side and pointed to a tiny spot behind his right ear. Even with a few meters in between them, a small roman numeral _III_ was visible. "I am the third. Alex was zee fourth."

"Fourth of what?"

Maxim smiled again. "You are one of us. Have you not figured it out by now?"

Sherlock was sick of asking blunt questions, but he had no choice. "Who's us?"

Before Maxim could answer, there was a bang. His face went blank and a small red hole appeared in his skull, right in the center of his forehead. He fell face first into the dirt, completely lifeless.

Another gunshot rang out. Sherlock felt a brief slash of pain against his cheek. He brought his fingers up to the source, and when he pulled them back, there was blood.

Bullet wound.

Sherlock quickly dropped to the ground his eyes rapidly canning the foliage in search of the sniper. He pointed his gun towards where the sounds seemed to have originated, and fired multiple times. No shots were fired back, but there was some rustling in the plants a few meters away. Sherlock fired a few more shots (three where he'd heard the noise, two extra shots right above that area as a warning for the assassin) until he was out of bullets.

The rustling stopped. However, Sherlock could almost feel that the sniper was still alive. Just hiding, holding his or hers (its?) breath, completely still so as not to attract attention. It was an odd feeling…almost like they had a connection.

His theory that the sniper was still alive was soon proven by the man in the green, fake-fur-lined parka that jumped up from the ground and sprinted towards the edge of the field.

Sherlock reloaded his gun quickly, aimed, and fired in the man's direction. He slowed his walk closer to steady his, which was hard with a moving target. John should've been there—he was a better shot than Sherlock was.

Finally, a bullet grazed the man's shoulder. The man didn't even scream, but he did collapse on the ground and put a hand up to stop the bleeding. It wasn't a serious wound—it would heal relatively quickly.

The consulting detective contemplated his options. He could kill the man right then and there, but then the ballistics would trace the bullet to Alex's gun, and he would be arrested. Then an investigation would happen, and he'd be found out. He decided a threat was the best way to go.

"I'm warning you," Sherlock called out, this time using Alex's voice, "if I ever see you again, I _will _kill you. Got that?"

The man didn't turn around. He didn't even acknowledge him. He just hopped on a motorbike (which Sherlock realized had been hidden in the grass the entire time; how could he have missed that detail?) and sped away.

Sherlock saved a picture of the license plate—PRL-284S—in his mind palace and turned back to the dead body at his feet. He'd walked close enough to the point where he could actually touch it now. Apart from the hair, they _were_ identical. Just like he and Alex had been, this is how they were now.

He took Maxim's wallet out of the dead body's pants and slipped it into his own pocket. He then turned back to the dead body, not entirely sure of what to do with it. Finally he came up with an idea that made the most sense—he had to dispose of it in a way that would keep people from finding and identifying it.

Taking his pocket knife out and rolling up his sleeves, he sliced the body's face in a few places, then cut a gash in the stomach, as deeply as he possibly could. He stuffed rocks in the body's pockets to help it sink. He calmly picked it up and carried it over (careful not to smear blood on his clothes; that was a difficult job, given all of the cuts that he'd put in it, but he held Maxim's body in such a way that the blood didn't rub against his suit).

Sherlock walked over to the edge of the water, where he could see that there was four feet of murky liquid below the surface that was just inches from him. He set Maxim's body down, rolling it into the river. It became completely submerged in the murky water. Hopefully no one would find the body anytime soon. In twenty-four hours, the body would become bloated. The deformation would make it more difficult for someone to identify the body. Maxim looked just like him and Alex, and Sherlock didn't want to take any more chances. He wished he could have found a bridge and dumped the body over the edge so no one would find him, but he didn't have enough time and he would run the risk of being seen. If the worst came, he would have Molly find a way to make sure he wasn't linked to Alex.

He brushed off his suit and straightened it, keeping the loaded gun in his hand in case someone tried to kill him again. He promptly walked to his car and turned on the engine, getting ready to drive to work—for real, this time.

Of course, nothing is that easy. Alex's phone rang as soon as he got on the main road. The caller ID was blocked. Sherlock picked it up and sighed.

"Molly," he said, turning on his fake accent. "I really don't have time for this."

"_Who's Molly?"_ a man's voice asked on the other line. It seemed oddly familiar, but Sherlock couldn't place who it was.

"Sorry?" he asked.

"_Alex, we need to talk."_

/

**And the next part is up! This one took a while, because I had to do a lot of editing on it.**

**Sorry about all of the "x hours later" headings...I had to put those there just to move the story along. There's going to be a lot more involving Art and Angie as they make discoveries about the whole clone thin. There will also be a lot more about the mysterious man and his "angel". And Alison - she just wasn't important in this episode.**

I had to add the banter with Felix because, well, he's FELIX. Felix just needs to interject at some point, relieve all of the drama by just being himself, so I put him in there. :D

**Anyways, I hope you enjoy it! The next part will be up soon.**


	4. Freak: Part 1

_**EPISODE 2: Freak**_

_**Part I**_

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, trying his best to be concerned.

"_Maxim called…he said he'd meet with you. Did he?"_

Irish. The man was Irish. A well-educated man with a calm, level voice. A teacher. A professor. Hopefully this guy was more intelligent than most people Sherlock knew.

"Yeah...he met me. It got out of hand, though."

Another voice called, _"Aw, what did he do now?"_

"_Shush, he can explain."_

Sherlock sighed. "I met with him...took him by the river so we could talk. We were followed."

"_Oh God...what happened to Maxim?"_

"Sniper. Straight through the forehead."

"_Alex! You have to get rid of the body!"_

"I did. I dumped it in the river."

"_Did anyone see you?"_

"No. We were alone."

Silence. Then, _"Did he have the briefcase with him?"_

"No…he wanted me to go to his hotel, but I've been on leave for a while. I can't skip work today, or they'll notice that something's wrong."

"_What time do you get off today?"_

"Six." Alex had a pretty consistent schedule.

"_Okay, after you get off, go to Maxim's hotel and get the briefcase. I'll call you back. Okay? And be careful. If Maxim got shot, then that means that we have an assassin on our tails. So stay out of harm's way."_

"Got it. Call me at seven."

_Click._

Sherlock dialed Molly's number and kept the phone on speaker. She answered immediately. _"What happened?"_

"There's another one."

"_What? Another one of you?"_

"Apparently. He was shot."

"_Did you kill him?"_

"No, an assassin did. He got my cheek, but I'm alright. The other one was shot from behind."

"_Oh Jesus…"_

"Molly, I got another call from someone else. An Irish person…a professor, given his tone of voice. He told me to go to the dead man's hotel and get a briefcase that Alex was supposed to get."

"_What are you going to do about that?"_

"Well, I'm going to go get it. Obviously."

"_Did you look the same, like, _exactly _the same?"_

"Yes, except for one detail. Two, actually."

"_Which were?"_

"Clothing. And hair."

"_Okay…well, was the person wearing more expensive clothes or less expensive clothes?"_

"More expensive."

"_Well, you're in luck."_

"Why?"

"_Because I brought your silk shirts back from the UK. And the pants."_

Sherlock smiled. "I never thought I'd say this, but Molly, you are a life saver."

"_Thank you. Now, I'm going to buy you some sunglasses and a hat. Just so you have something you can wear that will disguise your hair and stuff. Plus, I don't think I've seen you wear sunglasses. You'd look really hot in them."_

He laughed. Suddenly, he saw his law firm and began to drive towards the valet around the back (Alex had left him a map of the building, as well as a few names and pictures of the staff members.) "Molly, I have to go. I should free up around 12:15."

"I'll drop off your stuff then."

"Thank you."

The line went dead. Sherlock took a deep breath and prepared himself for the day that was to come.

/

The man completely forgot the pain in his shoulder until he was at the opposite edge of town. He ditched the bike and hid on the stairs leading to the basement of a house in the suburbs, pressing his hand against his shoulder.

It was still early in the morning, so he waited until the family in the house was gone. There were two kids, a nanny, a mom and a dad. The nanny took the kids to school while the parents commuted to work. No one seemed to notice the motorbike, nor did they notice the man hiding in the stairwell with a handgun (having abandoned his sniper rifle in the aftermath of the shooting had occurred.)

The man used his elbow to break through a window on the basement door. He didn't really care that glass was now stuck in his arm, nor that it was scratching his hand as he unlocked and turned the knob from the inside. If his angel could handle the pain, he could. And he'd been through worse.

He walked through the house, blood trickling on the carpet. He slumped against the wall as he pulled himself up the stairs, continuing to bleed. He was beginning to get delirious from the blood loss. But he had to keep going.

He pushed the door open, and then opened the child safety gate at the top of the steps. He went up the stairs to the second floor and walked to the master bedroom. He went to the bathroom, closing the door and leaning against the sink with his good hand.

He started to perform surgery on his arm, cutting into his shoulder and letting the bullet fall into the sink. He exhaled, feeling some (but not too much) relief.

He almost pictured his angel helping his hands stitch up the wound on his shoulder. She wasn't smiling…she wouldn't smile in a situation like this. Especially not because she'd been in this situation herself, or so he'd heard. But she was calm, caring, helpful. He really wished she was there with him, so he could tell her how much he loved her.

He bandaged his shoulder using the first aid kit that was there. He threw his leather gloves away and took off his shirt. He took a washcloth from the bathtub and started to clean the blood off his body and hands, which resulted in it getting all over the floor.

In the medicine cabinet he found a man's safety razor and started to shave his face. He had some stubble…not much though, only a few days' worth.

He then made his way to the master bedroom. He opened the father's closet and started to look through the clothes, finding a pair of jeans and a blazer. He found a gray t-shirt and put that on first, then remove his pants. He changed his underwear, but dumped the old pair on the ground. He might as well leave it all here; it wasn't like he'd ever need it again.

He got completely changed, then took a black hat and put it on so it would conceal his face. He found a pair of black gloves in the father's dresser. He also found a scarf…a blue one. He put them all on.

He took his knife out and carved names on the wall above the bed. Below that, on a painting, he wrote another in blood. Anyone who came in would know who he was doing this for.

He began to cover the walls with drawings. He knew h shouldn't be making such a mess, but he didn't view it as a mess. He thought of it as a tribute to the woman he had devoted himself to helping. He slowly walked down the stairs and carved an inscription on the wall with his knife.

He walked back to the kitchen, took a muffin from the kitchen table, and exited out the back door.

/

Sherlock sat at Alex's cubicle. It wasn't long since he'd been at the office. He'd stopped to get coffee first (Alex liked cream, but that was the only difference I their tastes). His memory had served him well, because a lot of his coworkers had said hello to him and called him by name. So he was thankful that he responded to everyone correctly.

One of the managing partners came by—Viktoria Muse. "Alex, may I speak with you in my office?" she asked. She was a tall white woman with dark hair and a pretty face, but not Sherlock's type—she looked too whimsical, too fairy-tale pretty.

"Of course," he said. He stood up and followed her to her office. She was pretty minimalistic, but she had a bulletin board with some of her children's artwork up. He quickly read the names of the kids and turned back to Viktoria before she noticed his intrigue with the art. "How are Katherine and Liam?"

She smiled. "They're alright. Liam fell off his bike though…he's learning how to ride a two wheeler and lost his balance."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Oh no, he's fine. I took him to the doctor, he got stitches. He'll have a little scar…the ladies will love that. At least, that's what Eddie says." Presumably, Eddie was her husband.

He smiled.

"Now, I have a question to ask you…it's a bit personal."

"Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

He frowned. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Are you alright? Before your vacation, you seemed…stressed. Tense. Are you okay? Because I know you have dysthymia…"

"Oh…" Sherlock thought back to what Alex had said in the video. He slicked his hair back with his hand as he explained. "Lana and I…we hit a rough patch in our relationship. We have it worked out though…I just needed some time off to clear my head. Plus, the doctor started me on some new meds, and it's been taking me a while to get used to them."

Viktoria nodded. "Okay. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine. Trust me."

"Alright. Well, if you need anything, let me know."

"Thank you." He stood up.

Just then, Viktoria's phone rang. She picked it up. "Viktoria Muse," she answered. Suddenly, her face was filled with panic. "Hold on, what happened?"

"Viktoria?" Sherlock asked.

"Shh," she said, listening on the other line. "Call the police, I'll be right there." She hung up. "There was a break in at my house. Blood everywhere. Motorcycle left outside."

Sherlock's mind immediately flashed to the shooting that day. "Oh God, is everything alright? Do you need me to come?"

"Actually, do you mind? I mean, Eddie will be there soon, but I need a friend."

He smiled. "Of course."

"Thank you so much." She stood up, stuffed her wallet into her purse and walked out the door, Sherlock following closely.

This really _was_ a case.

/

The man's shoulder started to hurt again, but he chose to ignore it. He pulled the hat over his head to conceal his face. He'd hate to be misidentified.

He passed by a payphone. The phone inside it rang once, then stopped, then rang twice again. The man walked into the booth and picked up the phone when it began to ring again.

"'Alo?" he asked.

The person on the other line answered in Ukrainian. _**Dimitri. How are you?**_

Dimitri sighed. **The job is done. Maxim Abramowicz is dead.**

_**That doesn't answer my question.**_

**I was hit. There was another.**

Silence. _**Male or female?**_

**Male. Another one of the first generation.**

_**Could you tell what country he came from?**_

**He was British, but he put on an act when he shot me.**

The man on the other line mocked him. _**You poor thing!**_

**I took care of it.**

_**Well, that's good. I need my best man in shape. After all, you have many people yet to deal with.**_

Dimitri ignored the comment. **How is she?**

_**Oh, your girlfriend? She's stable. We were still a little late…she might not wake for a few days.**_

**Fix her.**

_**You can't rush it. The medicine still has to work its way through her body. That was quite a big hole in her chest, you know. And she'd already started decomposing.**_

**I don't care. Fix her.**

Silence. _**Confirm the identity of the other man. The one who is responsible for your injury.**_

**In return?**

_**I'll give an extra dose to your…angel.**_

**Thank you.** He hung up. He wasn't entirely sure if his employer would keep his word but he needed to take the chance. He needed to get the woman he loved out of the depths of her mind and back where she belonged, into the world of the living.

And he would do anything to help her.

/

As soon as Art got the call about the break-in, he pulled Angie into the car and called Sarah on the car speaker phone so Angie could hear.

"There was a break-in at a house in the suburbs," he said, as soon as Sarah answered.

"_Do you have a suspect?"_

"Not yet. But we have seen the style before. Motorcycle left outside. Stick figures drawn across the wall. Blood everywhere."

"Evidence of self-surgery. Parka and other clothing items left on the ground," Angie added.

"Sound familiar?"

Silence on the other line. _"That sounds like Helena. But she's dead."_

"Well, apparently it was all men's clothes." Angie sighed. "Do you want us to involve you in the case?"

"_Depends. Do you have the books you made?"_

"Yes," Art said. They'd taken the pictures that Sarah had given them, in addition to evidence photos from Katja Obinger's case and put them in booklets. Sarah had explained everything again to Angie, who had transcribed everything into the booklets so they'd have a record in case something came up.

"_Well if you find something that you know is related to my case, call me, Cosima or Delphine."_

"Why not Felix? Or Paul?"

"_You've met Felix. I trust my brother, but he's prone to overreacting or flirting. And Paul…I can't think about that right now. Besides, Delphine knows more."_

Angie and Art exchanged glances. Something was wrong. Sarah shouldn't be excluding Paul…especially not when she knew he had feelings for her.

"Okay," he said. "We'll let you know."

"_Thanks."_

_Click._

"What do you think's going on with her and Paul?" Angie asked.

"From what I could tell, she's unsure about whether or not to trust him. He's not an open book."

"Neither are you."

He smiled a little. "Comes with the job."

"Well, I would expect given the job that Sarah has assigned to herself, and to Paul, that they would need to be open with each other."

"Fair point."

Angie started looking through the booklet in her purse. "We need to check for more signs to see if the two cases are connected."

"What are your thoughts?"

"Bible verses, mutilated dolls, paintings on walls."

"Paper fortune tellers?"

"Good call."

They discussed the possibilities of the case (why the person would have needed self-surgery, how they were going to trace the path of the motorbike, etc.) when they pulled up at the suburban house. The initial police units to respond were at the house, as had the owners in two separate cars. There were two middle-aged adults (a tall man wearing a business suit and a brunette woman also dressed very smartly) and one slightly younger black-haired man. They were conversing with a police officer and a young, racially ambiguous woman who was in tears. The two cops got out of the car as they walked over.

"Excuse me," Art said to the couple. "My name is Detective Arthur Bell." He showed his badge. "This is my partner, Detective Angela Deangelis."

Angie nodded when her name was spoken. "We're here to ask you a few questions."

The tall brunette woman outstretched her hand. "Viktoria Muse. This is my husband, Edward."

"Hello," Edward said, trying to retain panic and, as far as the cops could tell, anger.

"And…you two are?" Angie asked, pointing to the crying woman and the dark haired man.

"I'm Diana, the nanny," the woman said, trying to hold back her sobs. "I was the one who found the house…" She started crying. Viktoria put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"And you?" Art asked the young man.

"Alex," the man said. He smiled a little. "Alex Axis. I'm a friend of the family's."

"He works at my law firm," Viktoria explained.

Angie frowned at Alex. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

Alex paused for a moment and frowned. Or was it a frown? For a moment it seemed that his face went completely blank before coming back with a sly, slightly embarrassed smile. "I don't think so. I would remember you."

The two detectives exchanged glances. _That _was not normal. Normally a person would look confused or something, trying to place the person's face. That was not the case with this person for whatever reason. He looked completely controlled.

"Now, can you explain to us exactly what happened when you got home?" Art asked Diana.

"It was so frightening! I just came home and…" Diana gestured with her hands. "There was blood everywhere."

"Can we take a look inside?" Angie asked a nearby cop.

The cop nodded. The six people went into the house.

There was, indeed, blood everywhere.

Blood covered floor and walls. Stick figures were drawn in someone's blood; men on one side, women on the other. Footprints covered the carpet, the child gate was open, and blood seemed to be falling in line with the footprints. As they walked to the kitchen, they could see that a tray with muffins was out, and a muffin was missing (they appeared to have been carefully arranged earlier, so a missing one was completely evident). A knife was embedded in the wall of the hallway at one point, next to where someone had carved out:

_Бог шукає тих, хто приходить до Нього._

"_Boh shukaye tyhk, khto prykhodyt' do N'oho," _Alex said, reading the words aloud.

"What?" Edward asked.

Alex's eyes widened. Angie made note of that. "Oh. Sorry. Um…it's Ukrainian. _God is looking for those who come to him."_

"You speak Ukrainian?" Viktoria asked.

"I'm learning. It's a proverb, so…I just memorized it."

"Alright."

Angie pulled Art aside. "He's tied to this somehow. How many lawyers—how many _people—_within a hundred miles just so happen to know a Ukrainian proverb and can read it fluently in said language?"

"Yeah, I agree."

"Also, I don't like him. He's giving off bad vibes."

"What do you mean?"

"His interactions with other people are off." She frowned. "It feels like…"

"Like what?"

She looked him in the eyes. "Like Sarah's first day as Beth."

/

Alison Hendrix peeked out the window. She could see the police cars and sirens down the street at the neighbor's house. The Muses, she remembered. Ironic name given that they were not very artistic at all. She liked them because they seemed relatively isolated from the rest of the neighborhood—their house was one house away from being on a corner, both parents worked, the kids took dance lessons downtown rather than gymnastics and soccer like the other kids, and they went to a different school. They were still very nice people—they attended all of the potlucks and neighborhood events and were always complimentary of the neighbors. They just tended to keep to themselves in most other activities.

That's why Alison liked them.

The social scheme she was a part of was fun until she met her "sisters". Then, as she begame more and more a part of "clone club", she began to understand in a different light the fabricated world that existed in the suburbs she called her home. She'd seen her life slowly fall apart around her, ending with the death of the neighborhood's self-proclaimed queen, Aynsley. Her world had been crumbling.

Now it had been fixed with a simple signature and a scan.

She stared at her purse. Contained within it was a burn phone with a pink case. She promised herself that she would never pick it up again, no matter how many times it rang for her. To be honest, she didn't mind her suburban life all that much. It helped shield you from the truth, which was at times too brutal to handle.

She could hear her kids, Gemma and Oscar, giggling as they played downstairs. She smiled. They didn't have to know anything about her. Her husband Donnie, her friends—they didn't have to know who she really was. _What _she really was. They didn't have to know that someone else pretended to be her, or that she pretended to be someone else. No one else needed to know that a body identical to hers was cremated merely weeks before. No one had to know that crosshairs had been pointed at her head for who knows how long.

No one had to know anything.

For some reason, she left the nanny cam in her jewelry box still. Fully charged battery, but completely turned off. Again, she wasn't sure why she had it. Sentimental reasons? No. She wanted to forget all that had happened in the past few weeks and go back to the way life was before…except for the part about Aynsley, a pawn placed to watch over her and report back.

It was funny though. She didn't seem like a monitor. Aynsley was always prying, sure, and gossiping, but monitors would probably only report to their superiors. They wouldn't embarrass their subjects.

_Whatever,_ Alison thought, shrugging and walking out of her bedroom. _It was probably a technique. She needed to know every detail about my life…that's probably why she organized the intervention. To get the truth out of me. And she was so authoritative all the time…_

As she walked down the stairs, she couldn't get rid of the cold, uneasy feeling in her stomach. Something was wrong about…everything. Which was saying something, because everything should be _right _now. The Neolutionists promised she wouldn't be monitored. Life could go back to normal.

At least, that's what she thought until she heard the happy squeals from downstairs.

"Why don't you come around?" Gemma was saying.

"Well, I've been really busy lately," an all too familiar voice said in a thick British accent.

"Busy doing what?" Oscar asked.

Alison peeked around the corner and saw a lanky figure with dark, gelled hair dressed in a dark purple t-shirt, blue patterned scarf, and skin tight black jeans. His dark gray wool coat was slung over the chair like he owned the house. His pouty lips were curled in a smile.

"Well…let's see…I've been chasing criminals lately…" he counted off on his fingers while the kids giggled at the thought of the man in question chasing a killer around the city. "…I waited around in a car for someone who was running around the back of a shady nightclub…I was a bartender at your potluck a few weeks ago…"

"What's a bartender?" Gemma asked.

"I'll be _happy _to explain that in a second…" the man looked up and smiled at Alison. "…oh! There you are!"

"Felix," Alison acknowledged with a nod and a tiny smile.

"Kids, can I have some time with your mom alone?" Felix asked the children. "When Mummy and I are done chatting…maybe we could play dress up?"

"Yaaaaay!" The kids happily ran up the stairs.

Felix approached Alison, his playful expression turning serious. "I've been trying to reach you. Why haven't you picked up?"

Alison looked away. Both she and Felix knew that the question didn't need answering. "What do you want, Felix?"

"Sarah needs your help."

/

"Do you think he's a suspect?" Art asked.

"Look…I'm not sure yet. I've never met the guy before in my life. But I've _seen _him before." Angie put a hand to her head. "I don't know where…but he seems out of place here. Like someone pretending to be something he's not."

"Like Sarah trying to be a cop."

She nodded. "We need to run a background check on this guy. Figure out what he's been up to lately."

"And check morgue records in the area…maybe we'll have another Sarah case on our hands."

Their train of thought was cut off by Viktoria's exclamation of _"My God!" _from upstairs. The two cops ran up to where the civilians had wandered off to and saw what the group had seen.

The bathroom and master bedroom doors were opened, the doorways barred with police line tape. The bathroom had the first case wide open and blood everywhere, dripping all over the sink and cabinets like paint against a plain white canvas. The bedroom was in worse shape—there were figures drawn in blood, not pen ink, all over the walls. The furniture had been slashed at and dirty, week-old clothes littered the floor. Above the headboard of the bed were several words etched into the wall:

Гавриїл

Данило

Майкл

And underneath them, written in blood on a grayscale photograph of a sunset was a fourth word:

Олена

"What do those mean?" Edward asked.

Alex took the liberty of translating again. "They're names. The top three are all angels from the Bible. Translated into English, they're Gabriel, Daniel, and Michael."

"What's the fourth?" Viktoria asked.

Alex stared at it for a second, trying to place the connection between that name and the others. "That's strange."

"_What's_ strange?" Art asked, impatient.

"It's a woman's name."

"What is it?" Angie asked.

Alex turned to her. _"Helena."_

_**TO BE CONTINUED…**_

**/**

**GAH SORRY ABOUT THE LATE UPDATE THIS TOOK A LONG TIME**

**So...now we know the mysterious man's name. Dimitri. What's his connection to the clones? What's his connection to Helena? And will Art and Angie find out about Sherlock?**

**So I hope you like it! Please review :D**


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